As the Dew of Hermon
by Darklady
Summary: Post-Battle fic focused on brothers. Dean and his. Castiel and his. With thoughts on hell, redemption, and the nature of family. Brought on by speculation as to how the show should end. Slash but offstage in this part.
1. And There Was War in Heaven

**As the Dew of Hermon**

By Darklady

Who disclaims all ownership of Supernatural and the characters therein, lays no claim to either Heaven or Hell, and also warns the gentle reader about the risk of good slash, bad theology, and terminal snark. I'll try to avoid blasphemy, but make no promises as to heresy.

Pairings Dean/Castiel (so far)

* * *

_How good and pleasant it is_

_when brothers live together in unity!_

_It is like precious oil poured on the head,_

_running down on the beard,_

_running down on Aaron's beard,_

_down upon the collar of his robes._

_It is as if the dew of Hermon_

_were falling on Mount Zion._

_For there the Lord bestows his blessing,_

_even life forevermore._ – Psalm 133

They were losing. Hell, Dean thought, they were screwed.

Sam's blood dripped down onto the mud where Dean had fallen, his leg broken or maybe just too battered to respond. Sam's was worse, his thigh pierced by one shattered branch as he hung in mocking crucifixion - an echo of the shattered church behind them.

The final battle had exploded at… Dean had no idea. If Bobby Singer had named the town or the church, Dean hadn't listened. Some nowhere corner of corn-belt America, where virtuous fathers had raised white clapboard steeples between the barns and silos, only to watch their sons had abandon the lot for suburbs and factory jobs. Where forgotten priests drank or slept their aging days waiting on their faded congregations. The farms were gone now, their foundations just empty patches beside the asphalt, their graves holding this narrow acre of holy ground.

Dean gripped a shattered gravestone with his good hand, pulling up and trying to steady the shotgun on his twisted knee. Not that it would help now. The holy ammo was spent, and he didn't think rock salt was likely to phase the devil. Might distract him, though. Win Sam another second.

The shotgun clicked, pin broken.

Lucifer raised his hand. He laughed.

Sam's body twisted, pulled down to roll at the feet of the King of Hell.

Only one weapon left.

Dean opened himself. For Sammy's sake, he let loose the sword. But not to Michael. Never to that prick Michael. Dean spoke a single name, and the power ripped from his flesh.

The Sword of Heaven went forth, bright and fierce.

Castiel clutched the burning hilt and, filling it with all he was, with all his strength and all his grace and all his divinity and all his humanity he thrust the flame *straight* *into* *his* *brother's* *heart*.

Again

Again

Again.

Lucifer screamed.

Not just from the throat of his vessel, although that flesh screamed too. Lucifer screamed with a finality of sound that roared beyond hearing and slashed at souls. Screamed to the lost heaven of the angel that Lucifer was and had been, a cry bursting like a nova from the core of the Morning Star.

Birds fell.

Clouds shattered.

Light itself broke.

White light, rolling out like the ground effect of a nuclear blast. The light of heaven, and if Dean's swollen eyes could have seen it would have blinded him.

Black wings covered the horizon, bursting flame at the tips as the fullness of Castiels's grace burned Hell from every atom and boson and wave.

Newly angelic Powers and Thrones and Dominions soared upward in a rush of praise and power.

And the earth fell silent.

Silent as the blackened body in the scorched tan coat.

* * *

"Dean. Boy." Bobby Singer had somehow made his way over the pitted ground. His thick fingers swept the filthy hair back from Dean's brow.

"Sam?" Dean whispered.

"Padre's with him. Gotta call into the paramedics." Bobby tilted his flask against Dean's lips, letting the holy trickle ease the young man's throat. "Sam's gonna need a hospital, but he'll live. Not like your angel friend."

Dean forced his eyes open. Then he slammed them shut again. His angel's – his *friend's* - hand lay inches from his own; three remaining fingers twisted in a rictus of melted flesh and burned bone. His gaze followed up the heat-blasted arms to the destroyed corpse that once had held Castiel. The horror was matched only by Dean's most depraved memories of hell.

Then – to make it worse then Hell – the body moved.

"Cas!" Dean lurched over the broken ground to where the angel lay, "Cas. What…?"

"Healed him." The thin words slipped from Castiel's ruined lips. "Luc… back in heaven. No more war." The head turned, as if melted eyes could seek a beloved face. "You're safe Dean."

"And you are damned." A bitter voce came down from above.

Dean looked up. "Well if it isn't the life of the party. Zachariah." With a sneer, Dean took in the unruffled hair and suit of the vessel. Not even his tie was out of place. Even if angels could breath hard after battle, this one wouldn't be. "Crawled out from behind your cloud now that the fighting is over?"

"And not exactly bringing a cookie basket." Bobby Singer pushed himself to his feet. "What, you pissed that you don't get to end the world this week? Or maybe you just don't like to share daddy's attention with the rest of the kids."

"Castiel." Zachariah glared down at the dying angel. "Not content to sully yourself cavorting with the monkeys, you have taken on the stain of Hell itself. You are no morning star. You are abomination."

"It matters not." Castiel tried to breath in. The air rattled in his chest. "Dean will live. Sam will live. The earth will live."

"Cas." Dean gripped a bit of torn coat, afraid to touch ruined skin. "You…"

"Presumptuous creature." Zachariah almost spat the names at Castiel. "You will not waste the Lord God's air for another minute. I will send your worthless spirit down to the damnation you have inherited."

"Wait a darned minute." Bobby shouldered his way between Castiel and the other angel. "You're saying that your boy here redeemed Lucifer, and now he's gonna go to hell for it? Where in tarntion does that make sense?"

"He took on the Sin of the Pit." Zachariah sounded his loathing in every word. "Worse, this creature defied His commander."

"And heaven doesn't forgive." Dean sighed. "You said that before."

"Maybe heaven can't, but I can." A fourth voice spoke from behind Zachariah.

The angel turned.

The priest was standing there, the one whose church this was. He had been salting the door when last Dean had seen him. From the torn cassock and bloodstained robes, Dean guessed the salt hadn't held and the old man had finished the battle fighting the infernal court on more physical terms. He also guessed that the good Father was tougher than his white hair and grandfather cheeks suggested, given that the man was still here and the demons weren't.

Father Josepha, Dean suddenly remembered, although he didn't know if that was the man's first name or his last.

"A dressed up monkey playing at power." Zachariah's laugh held no humor. "What can you do?"

"Castiel." The priest dropped to his knees. "Do you love God? Do you accept him as your Father, and his son your savior?"

"My father. I…" Castiel's chest fell still.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"You pray over nothing." Zachariah protested.

The priest ignored him. "He still has a pulse. Bobby, will you stand for him?"

"Gladly." Bobby Singer sank into the mud on Castiel's other side.

Blurring the words in his rush, the priest asked "And do you, Castiel, renounce Satan, and all his works and all his promises."

"He does." Singer answered in Castiel's stead. "Did. Whatever."

Feeling around the wet ground, the good Father scooped up a palm full of dirty water. He shook the drops onto Castiel's forehead "Then I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit and…" Here he looked up at Zachariah. "Hell can fuck off because the clock starts again from now."

"Your monkey ritual can not heal him."

Bobby Singer smiled up, given the looming angel his best southern shit-kicker grin. "Never said it could, but it can sure as heck redeem him. Least that's the way I'm betting." He nodded at Zachariah, then down at Castiel's dying form. "Cas here kicks the bucket, then it's an E-ticket ride straight up to the throne of God. One stop at Saint Peter, and by breakfast our boy here will be telling Daddy the whole story."

"Corinthian's does say that the saints shall judge angels." Josepha also smiled up, kinder and gentler and no less implacable. Pausing in the recitation of the Last Rites, he added. "Our new brother Castiel is both a Martyr and a Holy Innocent."

"Heck of a combination." Singer pretended to be talking to the priest, but his attention was on the watching angel. "Wonder what sort of a mansion they save for that?"

"I'm sure they'll find one large enough for the legions of angels." The priest answered Bobby, but like the other man his real target was Zachariah. "You know, angelic servants that Saint Teresa mentioned as being at the service of the blessed." He quoted with deceptive simplicity "For as the angels are above man, so the saints are above the angels."

"Hey Zach?" Singer made of show of scratching his head. "How many angels in a legion anyway?"

"That's not the question he ought to be asking himself." Dean was still gripping Castiel's coat, but he had recovered enough to automatically follow Bobby Singer's lead. "He ought to be asking himself, is he gonna be one of them."

"Seems only fair, turnabout being a bitch and all." Singer pulled off his flannel overshirt, shaking out the looser dirt before tucking it tenderly over Castiel's still flesh. "You got to figure those brothers who trashed Cas have a little smite-back coming. So once he dies and he goes upstairs?"

"Hey Zack?" Dean leaned back so he could meet the angel's eyes. "You got to ask yourself one thing today. Do you feel lucky?"

"Very well." Zachariah raised his hand, and with a vicious swipe sent down a wave of grace. "Be healed!"

The power of heaven went forth, and where it touched even the stones grew smooth. Branches lifted, and flowers sprouted from the battered earth. Wounds sealed, pain vanished, and as the three humans watched the blackened flesh in their midst turned pink and whole.

"What was that?" Castiel sat up, confusion on his features.

Dean took his hand. "Just your brother Zack, wishing you a long and healthy life."

* * *

Author's Note #1: This is a stand-alone (for now) but may spawn a universe. It depends on how the television show goes.

Author's Note #2: FYI, the rather *ahem* "abbreviated" ceremony herein is known as a provisional baptism. Unlike the usual sacrament, a provisional baptism may be performed if the officient believes it is sincerely desired by the recipient, provided the baptise-ee is in immediate danger of death and no more conventional facilities are at hand. Presumably it only 'takes' if the person in question actually wants it. (The ultimate version of "God Will Know His Own" – so to speak.") Medieval canon law (or at least church custom) held that a person was 'alive' for purposes of receiving sacraments as long as there was breath felt and/or the body was warm. Father J is pushing the limits hard – with both hands - but he isn't actually breaking church rules. Bending them maybe.


	2. Baggage for Exile

**CHAPTER 2 - Baggage for Exile**

By Darklady

Who reaffirms all previous declarations of faith (in Kripke).

* * *

"I am here to see Dean." Castiel approached a young woman in pink scrubs who stood in the hospital hallway, efficiently directing several other healers.

She glanced down at her clipboard. "Dean?"

"He was at the church."

"Oh, the gas explosion." Her smile was half concern, and half relief at being in control. "Do you know which ambulance he came in on? How badly he was hurt?"

"He drove in with Bobby Singer." There had not been enough of the emergency personnel to treat all the injured, so those walking had been advised to make their own way to the hospital. Fortunately the cars had been parked on the farther side of the church, meaning most were only lightly undamaged. Dean had loaded Singer and four other injured hunters into the Impala, although not until after Samuel Winchester had been loaded into the first ambulance.

"Probably not too bad then." She smiled, putting an effort into broadcasting reassurance. "Chances are he went to triage in section three." Looking around, she pointed to a rare empty seat over past the phone banks. "If you sit there I'll put a page in for him."

"Thank you, but I will go to this section three."

Raising two fingers, he removed the conversation from her mind. The signs posted on the walls would be sufficient direction for now.

He walked quickly down the hallway, spotting more battle survivors as he passed. Many more were coming in as the ambulances returned with their second and third loads of the evening, and it was easy to follow the familiar faces to section three.

The feel of Dean Winchester was strong there, even about the buzz of pain and mortal grief.

Castiel found Dean sitting on one of the narrow treatment tables. His face was clean - as were the front of his shirt and jeans. Everything that had been in range of the bubble of healing Zachariah had cast was as crisp and perfect as it could be made. His back, by contrast, was a mess. The tail of his shirt was torn so badly that Dean had just flipped the two sides over his shoulders away from where the medic was working.

A young woman in light blue scrubs - for some reason decorated with ice cream cones and balloons - was picking gravel shards out of Dean's back.

"Cas!" Dean's smile lit the room. "How are you?"

"I am healed. As you know."

"Right. Saw that."

Castile turned to the doctor. "How severely is he injured?" He knew better than to ask Dean such a question. Or rather, knew that asking would bring nothing more than…

"I'm fine." Dean cut in. To the doctor he said, "Tell him."

"I'm not supposed to…"

"He won't go away until you do."

"But only family…"

"Think of him as my… in-law. What heaven has joined together. " Dean tried to smile back over his shoulder. It would have worked, except that the pain of moving turned the smile into a wince.

Actually, even with the wincing the Winchester charm still worked, because the doctor just signed and surrendered. "Mr. Winchester will *be* fine, provided he allows me to debride these numerous but fortunately very shallow abrasions, *and* provided he remembers to rest and take the antibiotics I am about to prescribe."

"Anything you say. Cross my heart." Dean made the traditional gesture. "Just get me fixed up so I can get to Sammy."

The doctor smiled at that, indicating that both men should stay put while she stepped out to get Dean's medicines.

"How is Samuel?" Castiel came closer, taking Dean's hand. "I did not see much before they took him away."

"In surgery." Dean's free hand pointed generally upstairs. "They say he'll make it. No organ damage, thank god. Or, you know, whoever."

Castiel understood. Lucifer had wished to punish Sam, to force him to surrender his body, but he would not have wished to destroy the vessel itself.

"He's got broken bones. Ribs, shoulder - the usual." Dean gave a little shrug, as if to dismiss the common hazards of a hunting life. "The real worry is the branch that went though his thigh. X-rays don't show wood well, and if they don't get it all out?" Dean slumped forward suddenly. "Oh Cas, he could lose the leg."

An event tragic for any man, and likely a death sentence for a hunter. Even with the Apocalypse forestalled and the Gates of Hell sealed, there were still many evils on earth - the majority of which would crawl over burning nails for a chance to harm a Winchester. A flare of regret burned though Castiel as he remembered his nearly moral state. Before he might have prayed to heal Dean's younger brother, but now cut off from the Power of Heaven, and with his own gifts bound or changed, healing was a gift denied.

Wrapping his arms around Dean's neck, Castile pulled the man close.

"Well well well." A mocking applause sounded from the back of the treatment room. "If it isn't the King of the Rebel Angels."

"You make it sound like a rock band." Castiel turned slowly, his eyes locking with Gabriel's even as his hands slid off Dean's shoulders.

"Oh brother." The trickster archangel paced slowly forward. "You do rock."

"Castiel. Gabriel." Dean looked at one angel, then the other. "What is going on here."?

"Choir-boy didn't tell you?" Gabriel forced his eyes unnaturally wide, a mocking anime of innocence.

"There hasn't been a lot of time for conversation," Dean snapped. "As you should know. Would, if you'd been fighting with us the way you were supposed to be."

"Dean. Dean." Gabriel snapped his fingers. An overstuffed chair popped into existence on Gabriel's end of the room. "How many times did I tell you I was staying neutral? You. Sam. Michael. Lucifer… Opps." He bowed lightly towards Castiel. "But it isn't Lucy anymore, is it?"

"Gabe." Dean snarled. "I bet I could find a wooden stake here. At least a tongue depressor. So stop with the trickster babble and…"

"Chill, Bro." Gabriel settled easily into his chair. "You don't mind if I call you that - seeing as how we're apparently family. And I didn't even get invited to the wedding."

"Gabriel." Castiel advanced, his expression dark. "You mock the sacred…"

"Yep." The second angel agreed cheerily. "Pretty much every chance I get."

Dean made a grabbing motion towards the supply stand. "Death by tongue depressor is what you're going to get if…"

"Well, I just heard from Anna, who heard from… ummm… pretty much everyone. And may I say I am awed?" Gabriel snapped his fingers again, and bright confetti fluttered down out of nowhere. Red balloons marked with black pitchforks and crowned skulls bounced down the walls. "I thought I had a gift for chaos, but I never made the feathers fly like…"

"Off topic again." Dean cut in "I'm reaching for my lighter."

Gabriel waved the décor back to oblivion. "Well, when angel-face here took the sword, instead of ripping Lucifer's grace out…"

Castiel bowed his head. "I gave him mine."

"Right. Just pumped Brother Luc full of that heavenly virtue filling, and since more than nature abhors a vacuum?"

"His grace - his fallen grace - flowed back into me."

"Meaning the Morning Star is now a petty spark up in heaven." Gabriel flicked his finger, and a single bit of light arched upward across the room. It was pink, and no larger than the pop of the sparklers Dean remembered from long past Fourth of July picnics. "No offense bro. I love you, but first choir you never were."

Castiel said nothing.

Gabriel looked at Dean and shrugged. "With what came back, Cas here got his ass promoted to Archangel. Plus, as a special bonus, Thursday boy is now the official Prince of Hell."

Dean looks to Castiel, looks to him for denial or for explanation for … hell… for direction on where do they go from here and how do they make it all work out - because Dean has always comforted himself that he could work with the weird, but maybe not this weird, and the thought of an evil Castiel? No. Just no. But Castiel wasn't arguing, wasn't denying, and wasn't fighting Gabriel. Worse, wasn't *looking* at Dean.

"The hell you say." Because Dean will still and always take Castiel's silence over a Trickster's words.

"Exactly." Gabriel snapped, and a cheesy pair of red plastic horns materialized in the air over Castiel's head. "But hey. At least you're keeping it in the family."

"You're not…" Dean turned to Castiel, stricken. "You don't want Sam…"

"Of course not!" Castiel snapped upright. "I would never!"

"That's right." Gabriel's laugh scraped like sandpaper. "Even I know there is no way our fine feathered friend there wants to be in your kid brother."

"So good." And that was the biggest weight off of Dean's chest. Not that he will acknowledge ever worrying, even to himself, because he knows Castiel is *just* *not* *Evil* *that* *way* No Castiel. Not ever. Not if God himself told Dean differently. "But…" He keeps his eyes on the trickster, even as he leans into Castiel "If you're the devil now…"

Castiel shivers. "I am not - the devil - as you phrase it."

"Learning to lie now too?" At Gabriel's' gesture an invisible pair of Hollywood searchlight sweep across the room, highlighting Castiel like some stage celebrity. "Good show."

"That is not a lie, it is merely.." Castiel waves, and the annoying show vanishes. "Matter's are uncertain."

Gabriel snorts. "That's like saying the FBI is gonna ask 'a couple of minor questions."

"I am no Lucifer. My command over the Legions of Hell is nominal at most. Certainly Belial does not see me as his master. None of the infernal Dominions are here doing reverence. Also…" Castiel paused, breathing in deeply. "I am hoping to be saved."

"Saved?" Dean sounds confused. "By?" Because they were running out of angels equipped to drag unworthy hunters out of hell, the only one of those they had being Castiel himself and…

"Brother Castiel *was* destined for the fiery throne, but your padre friend intervened, and now?" Gabriel stood. The chair behind him vanished. "Now it's more like a 'what now'. Or in the Host's case, a 'what do we do now'. No one's ever baptized an angel before, or has a clue if that even works, so until the folks upstairs can decide between smiting him down or pulling him up?"

Castiel stepped towards Gabriel, their eyes meeting in perfect agreement. "They will leave me on earth."

"And since the Host has never been famous for independent thought or quick decisions?" Gabriel added, including Dean in the conversation. "Let's just say I'd love to be his life insurance salesman."

"Gabriel!"

The trickster angel froze, two fingers already crossed and ready to vanish. "What now?" he asked.

"One favor."

"For you?" Gabriel shook his head. "No way - in hell. And by Hell I mean that specifically."

"Not for me." Castiel stepped back, hands raised in a gesture of peace. "For Samuel, for Dean's brother. Heal him as I can not."

"And end up with two thirds of the Host out to toast my ass? Just why would I want to do that?"

"Because I asked you to." Castiel answered in a whisper, "Because you are my brother."

Gabriel took another step away, then slumped. "I always did have a soft spot for the Winchester boys." Gabriel raised his hands, wide starched in angelic benediction. "OK. I'll do something. And it's for them - not for you. But just the leg. And just a little. I'm not granting any miracles. I don't need the Vatican on my ass, or worse yet the Ghostgrabbers."


	3. Born for Adversity

**CHAPTER 3 - Born for Adversity**

By Darklady

Who reaffirms all previous declarations of faith (in Kripke).

* * *

Dean had permission to remain outside the operating theater, waiting for further word as the operation progressed.

Already a nurse had come out, reassuring Dean that his brother would surely live, and beyond that bearing the welcome news that Sam's injuries were far less grim than the first tests had indicated. The doctors, she had assured them, had decided against the amputations. Sam Winchester would keep his leg, and with sufficient therapy might even walk again.

Castiel had thanked the woman for her kindness.

Dean had wept.

This had at first surprised Castiel, as surely she bore good news.

Bobby Singer had patted his hand, and had tried to explain catharsis and relief and the idea of tears of joy. Castiel had listened closely, but suspected that he had missed much of the subtext. It was not that he lacked an understanding of mourning or of loss. Many of his brothers and sisters had fallen in this past war. A tragic few had been slain by his own hand. But when angels died they did cleanly, the grace indwelling or vanished back into the Godhead. Angels did not sit suspended on blades of hope while a beloved sibling fought breath by breath.

The strangeness had chased Castiel from the waiting room, unable to find his usual peace and unwilling to burden Dean with… Castiel did not even know what to call it. He was not fearful, or in pain, or heavy laden. Why then could he not rest?

He had walked beige halls, moving without direction, seeking distraction between the noisy souls that swirled and parted, each with their own frantic need or hopeful demand. In time, and purely by chance, he had ended here, in this small room tucked between the gift shop and the snack counter.

The sign had read CHAPEL.

The room itself is bare. Six rows of wooden benches fill the space, long enough to sit four or perhaps five, each pair separated by a narrow center walk. There is a raised space at the far end, only a few inches above the main floor and barely qualified to be called a dais. A plain podium stands to one side, the pale wood making it look like the lobby receptionist had misplaced some part of her office furniture. It matched the altar, which in square sterility more resembled a too large coffee table, or perhaps a desk without drawers.

Under the utility Castiel can feel the lingering vibration of desperation and of denial, spicing the spirit of the place with a bitter tang.

For all of that, it is a sacred space.

Castiel has known cathedrals which were less so.

The room is empty, but not unwelcoming.

He takes a seat at the back.

He thinks about kneeling. There is space and equipment for that. But that seems somehow too dramatic, a theatre of faith. He sits.

The bench is warm, and unexpectedly comfortable.

In a compromise gesture, he does fold his hands.

Castiel's mind tells him he should give thanks. Clearly, his father has blessed Samuel Winchester.

Well, no. It was Gabriel who healed Sam, to what degree the inexpiable Archangel had. But, Castiel reminds himself firmly; the Father had not forbidden Gabriel to do so. He had not stopped his most unpredictable son from blessing the equally uncatagorisable Winchester brother. All was in Gods hands. Nothing could happen without the Father's awareness or against his will. Thus in so far as Sam had been healed it would be right and proper to praise the Lord.

Except, that would mean the near Apocalypse they had so barely survived was also God's will. It would mean that the treason of Uriel and the deaths of Castiel's brothers and sisters was also God's will. It would mean that Castiel's own confusion and… even his sin… were in some way God's will.

But… that was ridiculous. God could not want his children to rebel against him.

Castiel knew he was Fallen. He was disobedient and unclean and unworthy of his Father's love, and while he could not quite repent his sin he could at least find the moral will to acknowledge it.

Perhaps he should pray to Gabriel? No. That would be Abomination. Wanting worship was one of the crimes of Lucifer, of Lilith, of Belial. Castiel was not so Fallen as to contemplate *that*. Plus, it would be poor repayment to Gabriel, who was likely in enough trouble for helping Castiel and his… humans.

Reluctantly, Castiel put aside the idea of prayer. At least for now.

Perhaps he should meditate?

He can not, of course, commune with the Host. They will no longer share their voices with him. Even if they did? Castiel suspects he would not find peace in hearing what they have to say. His name is now the discord in the harmony of Heaven.

He can, Castiel realizes happily, still contemplate the glory of his Father's creation. True, an empty room surrounded by the illness and death is not perhaps the best example of the Lords magnificent bounty, but there is wonder and perfection everywhere. A single grain of sand glorifies the Creator as much as the most lauded mountains or sunsets.

Or? Here reality brings him down with a thud. He could consider what he has done, and what he will need to do. Castiel thinks what he did was right. He thought so at the time. He still does, really. But now with the frantic needs of the battle past his mind continuously turns back on itself to condemn him with all the ways that this right thing he did is also so very *very* wrong.

Unbidden, his hands open.

He buries his head in them, wondering if he should try to weep. David's tears had moved the Lord, so perhaps…?

A shadow lands on his shoulder.

"Um." A middle-aged man in a black shirt was looking down. By his expression he is not quite certain what Castiel was doing here, or what he should do with Castiel. "I'm the chaplain here and…"

"I am sorry. I will leave." Castiel does not completely understand the rules humans applied to such matters as chairs, although time with the Winchester brothers has at least made him aware of the general outlines. Driver picked the music, shotgun holds on to the map, and riders in the back seat could borrow Sam's iPod. In bars, keep one space between yourself and a stranger, unless the stranger was an unaccompanied female in which case Dean sat by the girl and Sam sat by the pool table. The best booth in any diner was the one overlooking both the door and the counter. The counter itself was never to be used as no Hunter sat with his back to the door. None of those rules seem to apply here.

Castiel stands. "I did not know this was your place."

"No." The man held up a hand, as if to stop Castiel. That was ridiculous. Even if Castiel had been fully human he would still have been a hunter and a warrior, while this man did not look as if he could take on so much as a poltergeist. "I mean yes. I mean… this is my place. In the sense that, like I said, I'm one of the hospital chaplains. But also no, you don't need to leave. Please."

Castiel settles back. He did not want to leave, not particularly, so if remaining will please this human? The man reads as kind, if slightly scattered in his thoughts. Although perhaps it is Castiel's own exhaustion that makes the man hard to read. Certainly the man intends no harm, which after the last days is enough to raise him in Castiel's opinion.

"I'm sorry if I startled you." The man sits down on the same bench. He leaves what Castiel has learned is a minimal polite distance between them. "I'm Mike. Michael Stranton. From Saint Paul's."

He says it with that tone that indicates Castiel might recognize him. In this, he is mistaken.

When Castiel says nothing, the man adds. "Saint Paul's up on Norris Street?" The man - Castiel can not make himself name stranger Michael - points over his shoulder. Then at his collar. "Ummm. Episcopalian. If that matters to you."

It does not, although Castiel does know enough of human history to identify the concept. That, however, does not seem a polite thing to say, and for all his clumsy speech the man is trying to show… is this empathy? For lack of a better response, Castiel goes with "you are a minister from Saint Paul's Church."

The man seems to take this as an answer, for all it is only an affirmation. He leans closer. "You looked worried. Can I help you?"

Castiel considers this question. Dean Winchester has found some members of the clergy helpful, and of course they are the source of hunter necessities like holy water and blessed oil. The man is likely a trained exorcist, if not an experienced one. If demons were to attack he might prove useful. But of course demons will not attack. Most have been destroyed or returned to the pit, and any who escaped the harrowing will be hiding.

Castiel does not think that the man is offering medical assistance. That is the purpose of the building, but such care is the realm of doctors and nurses, and in any case would be provided out on the clinic wing. Plus Castiel retains the power to heal himself, if no longer others.

Food has been provided by the cafeteria, and coffee by the vending machine. The Red Cross worker found toothbrushes and a fresh shirt for Dean. Plus, of course, Gabriel had come to his aid.

Castiel nods at the memory of that. "I am being helped."

"Oh." The man jerks as if struck. "Good. That's good. But…" He blinks, like Sam's computer resetting. "If… if you yourself want to talk… or anything…"

Castiel did, strangely, want to talk. Not that he anticipated that this human could understand him, but… an eternity of speaking to a silent heaven had left a deep need for - just once - for *someone* to hear and to answer. It didn't, Castiel realized suddenly, matter what the answer was. He just wanted someone somehow to *hear*.

"My brother Ga...." No, that was a direction not to go in. "Gabe." Castiel used Dean's name for the archangel. "My brother Gabe. He helped me. Well, he helped Samuel, but he did it for me."

"And that troubles you?" The minister's voice was flat, with just a tinge of quizzical.

"It was a kindness, but one that will offend our… other brothers."

"Why? If you don't mind my asking." He looked around, as if checking that the empty room was just that. "We can make this confessional, if you want."

Castiel ignored that last. God would hear if he wished to hear, and the rest could do likewise. Nothing he said would make the garrison angrier.

"The brothers do not approve of …Dean." Among the thousand other offenses in thought and deed for which Castiel stood condemned, but Dean was the focus and first cause of all of them.

"Dean?"

"Samuel's brother and my… friend."

"Oh!" The minister's tone made a sudden up-tick, as if Castiel had somehow said more that five words would hold. "That can be a… difficult matter… for a family to accept. But from what you say, your brother Gabe has reached out to you."

"Yes." Castiel agreed. "I think he likes Sam and Dean. Not as I do. They do not always… agree. They have had their fights. But he did come to me here, and when I asked for his help… he did what he could."

"That speaks well for him."

"He is, I think, better than he hold himself to be." Something Castiel would not have been able to grasp before, but he was learning to think in new ways. Perhaps even ways that Gabriel could not. "But now I fear that my other brothers will act against Gabe. They might try to rebuke or even punish him… because of what he has done for Samuel and… just for speaking to me."

The minister shook his head. Under his breath, he muttered, "Angels and ministers of grace defend us."

"Exactly" Castiel smiled. This human was wiser than he had expected.

"Your brother?" The man tilted his head slightly, reminding Castiel strangely of the photo Bobby Singer had shown him of his favorite dog. There was something gentle yet pleased around his eyes. "He knows this? That they might feel this way?"

"Yes." Distance from the Host would not have weakened Gabriel's memory. "It causes him pain, I think, although he denies it." Gabriel would mock the idea that he still wants Heavens approbation, but watching Dean has taught Castiel how often mockery can cover bleeding needs. The similarity between the two souls is in this way painful to consider, and at times Castiel fears that Gabriel in heaven had suffered as deeply as Dean had in hell. "I would intercede for him, beg their mercy, but that would… that would just make things worse." After a second Castiel ads. "For him."

"He knew there would be consequences, but he helped you anyway." The minister sounds strangely upbeat. "Willingly. You didn't force him to help you, right?"

" I begged him but… no." Castiel almost laughs. Not from humor, but just at the ridiculous image of a mere garrison angel forcing an archangel to do anything. "I have no power to compel him. He is much stronger than I ever was."

"Well then." The man nodded, as if some great conclusion had been reached. You have to respect your brother, and allow him to make his own moral choices." He patted Castiel lightly on the shoulder. "Personally, I'm glad that he made it in the direction of charity. Caritas, we are taught is the queen of virtues."

"Really?" Cas jolted back in the seat. "I thought obedience was?"

"If I speak with the voice of angels, but have not charity?" He made the quote into a question. "I'd suspect you know that one."

"Yes." Castiel knew all scriptural verses. In all languages. From all religions. "But I had not considered matters in that light." He wondered if it was uncharitable to imagine Zachariah's face if someone was to call him a 'tinkling cymbal'. Then he wondered if this particular building was lightening proofed.

"Thank you." Castiel found he meant that thanks. Sincerely. He wondered if he could bless the man.

Holding to the back of the pew, the minister pushed himself to his feet. "I'm about to do rounds, so if you have someone you'd like me to look in on? Pray for?"

"Samuel Winchester. He is in surgery now. And also…. his brother Dean." Who would scoff if Castiel told him he was being blessed, but who had taught Castiel that not all secrets had to be shared. Dean had no grounds for complaint when his own lessons were applied back on him. "He was also injured, although less so."

The Reverend Michael Stranton pulled out a small spiral note pad. "Would they be offended if I added them to the mass intentions list? I have an opening this Wednesday night."

Castiel grinned. "Do you think you could make that Thursday? That is our … special day."

**********

_Proverbs 17:17 A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity._

**********

This is not a grand story arc, but a series of moments as Musey dictates them. I wish I could promise some great story, but it's really just about Castiel and his brothers. All his brothers.


	4. Solomon's Seal of Approval

**CHAPTER 4 - The Good Housekeeping Solomon's Seal of Approval**

By Darklady

Who reaffirms all previous declarations of faith (in Kripke).

* * *

"Come, Dean." Castiel returned to where the human's waited. "I have need of you."

Already they had waited over long. His next task would wait no longer.

"What tha'?" Bobby turned from his place by the hospital bed. "Can't ya see we're sort of busy here?"

Castiel glanced briefly at the bed.

Samuel Winchester was out of surgery. This was a positive, as he knew Dean would never abandon his watch while his brother was bleeding. That he was pale, with plastered limbs hanging from the bed supports, did not bother the angel. He knew the younger human would recover, eventually. He slept now, but as his battle was over that was in no way a bad thing.

"You should remain with him," Castiel agreed, conceding to the older hunters desire to defend his 'boy'. Not that such guard was needed now. Samuel would be safe in the care of the medical staff.

"Darn right I will." The older man put on what, on Sam, Dean would have called his 'bitch face'.

Castiel was not inclined to challenge the hunter. His attendance on Samuel was wise. At least, it would do no harm, other than to Singer's aching lumbar - a detail he did not mention. Castiel owed Bobby Singer more than his own life. He did not wish to offend his new 'godfather' by stating a truth the man would likely find heartless.

"I'm not going anywhere either," Dean snapped.

"You must. Although the battle is over there are still weapons and… other things… that must be secured."

"So I'll do it." Singer heaved himself unsteadily to his feet. "If you're talking mystical doodads? I'm still your man. This kid wouldn't know a pentagram from the prize in a cracker-jack box. " At Dean's offended frown Bobby added. "Not beat up as he is tonight."

This was true. Bobby Singer was well versed in mystic lore. Plus the man had come though the battle with fewer injuries than most, and after that had been in the range of Zachariah's angelic healing. That did not, however, remove age. Dean Winchester would be the better battle-mate, once one adjustment was made.

From the way Dean shifted from foot to foot, jolting upright each time exhaustion brushed him against the wall; his serrated back was already inflamed. While each wound Castiel had seen was small, taken one by one, the total effect of the blast-born rubble had been something like taking a cheese grater to flesh. By morning his human body would be unable to bend.

All the more reason, Castiel considered, to work now.

"Here." Castiel passed Dean a small paper cup with three white pills. "These will help with the pain."

Dean held the pills to the light, checking the impressed names. "Where did you get these from?"

"The patient next door." Cas could have gone down the pharmacy, but he had not realized he would need these human drugs until he was almost back to Dean. Turning around at that point would have been one further delay.

"Stealing meds?" Dean shook his head. "Not good."

Castiel did not understand why. "You steal all the time, for the greater good."

"Yeah. But not from sick folks. That's…" Dean waved his hand vaguely. "Sick."

No. Dean was sick. "You will need them." Castile explained calmly. "Your back is already beginning to hinder you."

"So I'll go downstairs to the clinic and…"

"They will put you in a bed - which would normally be wise as you will be in grave pain once the shock has worn off. However, that must wait until after we have finished this last mission." Castiel spotted a cup on the narrow stand beside Sam's bed. Filling it with water, he handed it to Dean. "The pills will defer the pain."

"Yeh. Like they were supposed to defer his pain. Whoever he is." Bobby pressed forward, taking the pills from Dean's hand. "These go back to the guy you stole them from."

Ah. Now he understood the nature of the human's objection. "He will not need them." Cas reassured Singer. "The man will be dead by morning."

Bobby Singer snorted. "Doesn't mean you can just…"

"Plus." Castiel reclaimed the pills. "I have given him ease until then."

"Oh." Bobby stopped."Guess it's all good, then."

"Still, Cas." Dean sounded - at most - half convinced.

"Please." Castiel took Dean's hand. "If I could do this without you I would, but there is no other I can both trust and…" What more was there? "Trust."

Dean shrugged, then tossed back the pills. "I guess it's good to be trusted."

Castile had never considered that question. Of course, he always had been trusted absolutely. At least, until this battle. Now he could not hear his bothers, here in his self-exile, but he knew whatever faiths the various factions of Heaven held, none now held faith with him. No soul in Heaven, or in Hell, or on the earth between. Except Dean. Sam and Dean. Bobby Singer and Samuel Winchester and… Dean.

Dean, who's battled calloused hand he pulled to his chest. "In this I must ask you to trust me."

"I do." Dean spoke it like a vow. To Bobby Singer he said, "You watch Sam until I get back, OK?"

"Ok." Bobby sighed. "You boys go about your business. But?" Bobby sent Castiel a hard glare. "Once we get these chuckleheads back to normal? You and I are going to have a serious talk about ethics."

* * *

_Just a short transitional bit before things … start._

_This is shifting to incomplete status as the series of irrelevant events has finally spawned a plot arc. For a very small value of 'plot' and 'arc'._

_For those who can't stand WIPS? Basic story here in 100 words or less._

_Stuck with 'life on earth' (at least until he can figure a way out that doesn't include the direction *down*) Castiel has to deal with his almost-human family life. It comes complete with incomprehensible in-laws, sniping siblings, and a dad who *still* won't answer his calls. He's sure there must be a plan somewhere, but the 'guidebook' is about as comprehensible as a Japanese cell-phone manual. One translated from the Basque by part-time workers in Ulan Baltor. Eventually, like every other family trauma, it all works out. Somehow. More or less._

_I could wrap it up in three chapters. I'm probably going to take 300. Mostly so I have space for the crack._

_Enjoy the ride._

_(Suggestions welcomed.)_


	5. Spoils

**CHAPTER 5 - Spoils**

By Darklady

(I still don't own the boys, and Crowley isn't answering my calls. Bummer.)

"Dude." Dean Winchester spun around, taking in the upscale details of the hotel room. Make that hotel suite, given how the bed was on the far side of a half-wall that divided that area from the sofa and desk area where they had landed. "Tell me we are not back in Van Nuys."

"We are not back in Van Nuys." Castiel answered. His voice was blandly calm.

Dean could never decide if that was angelic obliviousness, or just Cas jerking his chain.

"You better not just be telling me what I want to hear. Because this place looks a lot like that dammed green room."

Except for the king size bed. And the place being in far better taste. Maybe the heavenly host had found a decorator with talent?

"I would tell you what you wish, but in this case it is also true." Cas was moving quickly across the room, flipping open drawers as he passed. "This is not the green room. It is, perhaps, damned. Although such condemnation does not usually apply to architecture."

Dean snorted at that. "You haven't cleared as many haunted houses as I have." And based on that experience? This place had a vibe that wasn't matching the high-end furnishings. There was this odd smell, like something rotten hadn't quite died.

He took a step deeper into the living room area. Each step felt his boots sink deep into the plush shag carpet. Had the thought the Elysium Fields was a class hotel? Just went to show what a lifetime of twenty-a-night flops could do to a guys taste level.

This place wasn't a nice hotel room. This place was what nice hotel rooms wanted to be when they grew up.

"You check out that side." Castiel directed. "Collect anything useful."

Whatever. As he passed, Dean checked the top of the big screen television. Nope. No Casa Erotica pay-per-view. He guessed maybe this place wasn't that hot after all.

"So." he asked Castiel. "What are we here for? Other than raiding the mini-bar." Which wasn't all that mini. There was an actual bar, complete with a half-sized refrigerator and a built-in sink. Also? Dean checked behind the cabinet drawer. A shelf just packed with miniature liquor bottles.

He picked one out. Scotch. Twenty years in oak? He didn't even know they made mini bottles of stuff that classy. Dean automatically tucked it into his jacket.

"Dean." Castiel sounded… not exactly angry. More pissy.

"Hey, it's OK, right?" Or was this some new torment? Hell part two. Show a guy good booze, then don't let him have any.

"Help yourself." Castiel surveyed the cabinet's contents briefly before turning back to his search. "Although I'm sure your doctor would not recommend mixing scotch with pain medications."

"Who's gonna tell him?" Dean cracked the little paper strip covering the top. The scotch smelled as smooth as the label promised.

"I do need you functional."

"OK." Dean screwed back the top. "I'm just taking them for later. Plus, you know, Bobby might like a souvenir." Or just plain a drink. After the battle they had been though he figured the other hunter would need one. Dean knew he sure did. And it wasn't like the hospital gift shop carried whiskey. Or like, with Sam all banged up, either of them was going to be going out to any of the places that did. He collected the Irish Whiskey bottles too. They could maybe slip a bit into the hospital coffee. Couldn't hurt?

Actually? Thinking of hurt? Dean snatched up bottles at random, stuffing every pocket he had.

"So?", he asked Castiel over his shoulder. "Spill. Where is this place and why are we here?"

"This is the Minneapolis Hilton."

Which was, ok, an answer - but the type of answer that didn't answer anything.

Cas must have caught Dean's eye-roll, because he continued, "We are here because my brother Lucifer is not."

"We're here because he's not here?" Well, duh. If Lucifer were still here - as in anywhere on the planet - they would be small smoking chunks of charcoal. "Cas, I thought I was the one popping the good drugs."

"This is the last place Lucifer stayed before the final battle," Castiel explained. Patiently. "He left many things behind. Things we are here to collect."

"Like what?" Dean glared suspiciously at the overstuffed seat. Oh no, not the comfy chair!

Reaching into the bedside drawer, Castiel pulled out a small book. The cover was black leather, and the binding was embossed with faded gold lettering. Not exactly the oddest thing to find in a hotel nightstand except? Dean looked closer. The lettering looked familiar. Familiar in a bad way. Enochian familiar.

"Ouch." Dean shuddered as he worked out the words. "That is not looking like the Gideon Bible."

Castiel frowned down at the volume. "It is The Binding Sigils of Laviah."

"Yeh yeh. I get it." And Dean did. He wasn't a collector like Bobby, much less a dealer like Bella, but he had spent enough time on the getting-kicked end of book magik to figure out that knowledge could be power. Power you didn't want to leave around for just any amateur with bad Latin and a worse attitude. That way lay pain and more hunting than even John Winchester would have had time for. "Spooky book. Bad stuff, forbidden knowledge, burns your eyes out if you open it wrong."

"No." Castiel dug deeper into the drawer. "That would be this book."

He held out a larger volume. It had metal corner guards shaped like crows feet, chains across the front held by a heavy lock embossed with seals, and the binding didn't look like the leather that came wrapped around a steak. More like the sort of hide you burned at the stake. Dean even thought he spotted a bit of a tattoo.

Flames flicked along the edges as the pages cracked open.

"Ouch." Dean shut his eyes. "So don't wave it in my face, will you? I sorta need my vision."

Cas must have listened, because when Dean risked a look the light show had passed.

The angel was considering the small pile on the bedspread. There lay the two books Dean had seen plus three more the angel must have recovered while Dean hadn't been looking.

Now that he knew what was up, Dean started checking out the place with a hunter's eye. The desk held pens, a brochure of hotel services, and a room service menu. Devil's Food Cake was underlined in the desert list - so who said Lucifer didn't have a sense of humor. Also, what was it with angels and chocolate? Pushed to the back he found one clay disk with stamped with symbols he couldn't read and two small silver charms. One looked like a hand with two thumbs. The other almost passed as something a bored kid would twist from a paperclip.

They looked harmless. Dean figured Bella would have killed for them.

He tossed them onto the bed with the books.

Castiel poked under the bed. Then he pulled back. What ever he was looking for? Clearly, he was having no luck.

He looked around the room. Dean could see he was, once again, disappointed.

Finally, Castiel asked, "Can you find a bag?"

Good idea. Those books weren't the sort you wanted to carry around without the plain brown wrapper.

Dean checked out the closet on his side. Empty. "No suit case. I guess Lucifer wasn't big on wardrobe." Given that he hadn't changed any more than Castiel had. And what was it with angels and their lack of fashion sense? Not that Dean was into that sort of thing, but he did own more than one shirt.

"But hey." Dean ran his fingers along the topmost shelf of the closet. There was something up there and… yes! He pulled the folded plastic down. Shaking it open, he handed it to Castiel. "Here's a laundry bag."

"That will do."

"Almost missed it. Sam and me - we don't stay at a lot of places with laundry service."

"Wise." Castiel slid the volumes in. "They might question some of the more incriminating stains."

There was that, Dean acknowledged.

Castiel had left the packed books on the bed, and had gone over to inspect a picture. Dean didn't see why. It was just a print, even more boring than the bargain bin crap hanging on the walls of the skuzzy hotels he was used to. Which just went to show you couldn't buy taste, or some such cliché.

Except now Castiel was swinging out the frame. There was a safe hidden behind it.

"Dean," Castiel said, staring at the beige metal plate. "I require your assistance here."

"No sweat. These babies aren't so hard to crack." Easier than the combination ones, as long as you had the right gear. The hotel had to have a master code for all those times stupid civilians forgot their code and locked themselves out or their stuff in. Not to mention the idiots who just locked the thing and then checked out. But since hotel people were also idiots, and didn't like memorizing truly random combinations? Dean tested about a dozen combinations before the electronic lock clicked to green.

The metal front swung open.

"Like… oh. WOAH!" Dean blinked at the printed paper. Banded stacks of bills filled the bottom half of the cavity, held down by large golden bricks. Make that - large gold bricks. "Is that?" Dean asked, even though he didn't think Lucifer was going to keep a safe full of fake bullion and Monopoly money.

Castiel nodded. "Tribute from his followers." He pulled out a small suede pouch, something like a hex bag, and tucked it into his coat pocket.

"I thought only rock stars had groupies like that." Dean cut off the reply. "No. Don't say it. I so am not up for any 'morning star' puns." Not without Sam here to suffer with him.

Castiel simply handed over one of the gold bars.

Dean nearly dropped it. The thing weighed like a son of a bitch.

Shifting it to the bed, Dean watched as the quilt dipped under the weight. There had to be at least a dozen of the things.

Once the gold was out of the safe, Castiel started passing along the bills.

Dean recognized the American money. He had seen hundreds, if not that often. He could make out the Canadian dollars, and the Euros, and the British pounds - because even if they didn't use them much in Kansas he could read the numbers. Some of the other bills? Dean would simply take it on faith (some joke there) that those were equally valuable.

Once the safe was empty, Castiel shut the front and set the picture back into place. Pointing at the bed, pillow top mattress now dipping visible under the load, he told Dean "We will require something stronger than plastic to carry these."

Like a luggage cart? came Dean's mental snark. Place like this, wouldn't they have a bellman or something to carry out their guests luggage? But seeing as how he as Cas weren't exactly guests, and this wasn't exactly their luggage, he guessed they'd have to improvise. Checking around he suggested, "How about a pillow case?"

"Would that not be theft?"

"We're here burgling the room, and you're worried about snarfing the linen?" Dean was already stripping one of the king-size pillows.

"These goods were given to Lucifer," Castiel protested. "I inherited them along with his position. Even if the donors yet live, they would have no claim on what they gave freely. Also?" Castiel paused, contemplative. "While some might wish to reclaim these things, would you want to see them in the hands of anyone who would willingly follow the devil?"

"I see your point." Dean had pulled a second pillowcase. Heavy as this stuff was, he figured they ought to be double-bagging it.

"The housekeeper, however, is innocent," Castiel explained. "I would not have her suffer for my extractions."

"Just leave a couple of bills. She'll forgive you."

When Cas didn't move, Dean went back to the desk and pulled out the hotel service guide. "Look," He flipped to the page advertising bathrobes and fancy towels. "They've even got a price list." Dean read it, then whistled. "And man, these guys are not shopping at Wal-Mart."

"Very well." Castiel pulled one bill from the stack of hundreds. He laid it on the bare pillow, hesitated, and ignoring Dean's choked protest added another. "If you are sure."

Dean huffed. "You tip like that, and I'm taking the fancy soap as well."


End file.
